Audio
by JMcK
Summary: JJ goes undercover. Morgan makes a promise he can't keep.


_Author's note: _

_It is what it is._

_And it's dark. Fair warning… _

**Audio**

The night started with a promise.

And ended with lies.

"Thirty seconds tops."

Morgan met JJ's eyes, and added:

"Probably more like ten."

"You'll be in the stairwell, right?" She double-checked.

"S'right. And you've got the second floor corner. Like I said, thirty seconds tops."

She nodded, reached for the bottle of water she had on the round table, and took a drink.

Maybe obscuring her face to hide nerves.

And thoughtless words came easy:

"You're gonna be cool," he assured her, checking for doubt in her eyes. "This guy's an opportunist. He uses whatever's available when he rapes and kills."

"That's… comforting," she tossed out, taking another sip.

And he clarified:

"Point is, we don't think he's got a gun. And you do."

He fixed another piece of the Bureau's favorite skin-friendly adhesive to a tiny push button, and attached its wires to the rest of the gadgetry adorning her stomach.

"That's your panic button," he told her. "You hit that thing, you get me by your side faster than Reid can eat a Twinkie."

She cracked the smile he'd been looking for, then caught sight of something behind him, and yanked her shirt down over her exposed midsection and the wires that were affixed to it.

He turned to find she'd spotted Hotch entering the room, Garcia and Emily on his heels.

"We're all set in the super-techno-van," Garcia announced. "It's a conspiracy theorist's nightmare in there. We can get you loud and clear from Timbuktu if we have to."

"We only need to get her from inside the apartment," Hotch noted calmly, approaching JJ. "Do you feel ready for this?" he asked sincerely, and JJ nodded without hesitation.

"I'm set."

"All we need from you is to keep him talking, keep him on point about the dating service," Hotch reminded her, not for the first time. "The goal tonight is to get enough to compel his DNA."

"Got it."

She nodded again, her face a mask of confidence.

But she was checking her gun as Hotch added:

"The first floor of the building is commercial. Prentiss and I will blend in with the after work crowd --"

"And Morgan's hanging out in the stairwell." She nodded yet again. "And Reid's with Garcia in the van. I've got it."

There was a brief moment of silence.

Perhaps of reluctance.

And then Hotch spoke up:

"Let's go."

…

"All you gotta do is keep your head in the game," Morgan told her, shadows whipping across their faces in the back of the moving van.

Fear lurked behind the resolve in her eyes, but she nodded, told him:

"I know."

"We've got all the angles covered."

"I know."

And he knew she did.

But undercover work was a first for her.

And he'd been there.

So when the van stopped and she moved for the door, he offered up a few more choice words.

"Get in, get him talking, get out. Remember that we're gunning for a way to get his DNA, not a confession. Keep your head. Keep your cool. Remember that we've all got your back."

He caught her gaze, clapped a hand on her shoulder, reminded her:

"Thirty seconds tops."

She nodded.

Swallowed her nerves.

Shot him an appreciative look.

And disappeared out the back door.

…

"You know Hotch picked the bank instead of the All-a-Dollar just so he could blend in and keep that damn tie done up tight," Morgan teased, alone in the stairwell and able to speak over the radio waves freely.

Emily's voice buzzed in his ear:

"The bank _is_ closer to the stairwell."

"Keep telling yourself that," Morgan threw out, even though he knew it was true.

"You two do realize I can hear you?" Hotch put in.

And Morgan recognized a tiny hint of amusement in his otherwise stern voice, only because he knew him well.

He was about to continue the banter when the sound of JJ greeting their potential unsub reached his ears.

And they all got serious fast.

Silent, listening.

There was a minute or two of small talk before JJ brought up the dating service the unsub had been using to cast his net.

The same dating service on which they'd registered JJ under an assumed name and meticulously designed profile, casting a net of their own.

It took her less than five minutes to get him talking about where he liked to take his dates, which was potentially information that they could use.

Hotch spoke up, and a slight static told Morgan and Prentiss that he'd opened up their airwaves to Reid and Garcia in the van.

"Reid, call Detective McBride, get him to get officers canvassing the restaurants. If a waiter can confirm him with any of the victims, that may be all we need to get the DNA order."

The static disappeared, then blipped on again with Garcia's voice:

"So, can we get Jaje out of there now? Please?"

"She's doing fine," Hotch assured her. "And maybe isn't good enough."

They all fell silent again.

Listening.

…

When it had been over ten minutes, and JJ had gleaned the name of a second online pseudonym that could be checked out, and Garcia had again made the request to pull her out, and again been denied, Morgan started feeling uneasy about the whole thing.

"Hotch, Man, maybe she's right. We got more from this thing than we sometimes do. Why push our luck?"

"The guy's got her alone," Prentiss put in, calm but concerned. "And we have no reason to think he ever waited until the second date. Do we really want to wait until he tries something to get her out of there?"

"Absolutely not," Hotch responded quickly. "If you think that I'm banking on his attacking her to get the DNA order --"

"Hotch – I would never --"

"Hey, point is --" Morgan tried to break in.

But Hotch cut him off:

"I do have a game plan…"

Morgan sighed as Hotch went on.

He and Prentiss were talking amongst themselves. Arguing, almost.

Morgan knew they were pretending to browse mortgage-related pamphlets near the entrance to the bank from the building's lobby.

That lobby was just outside the stairwell door, which put them just a matter of feet away from him.

And so he didn't even give what he was doing much thought, when he opened the stairwell door and stepped out into the lobby.

He didn't feel he was putting JJ at any further risk by stepping into the bank.

After all, it was just a few second's dash away from the stairwell.

It hardly mattered.

He took up a place at Emily's side, and listened in as Hotch talked himself through the options.

"… and the bank is going to close in nine minutes, and then we won't be able to just blend in." He shot Morgan a look, probably one meant to say that they couldn't very well pass for a couple investigating mortgage rates with him at their sides.

Morgan ignored the look, pressed for an agreement:

"That's a good time limit, then, am I right?"

Hotch glanced at his watch again, and nodded.

"Nine minutes?" Prentiss double-checked.

"Nine minutes," Hotch confirmed.

And Morgan nodded.

Satisfied with that.

He turned back toward the stairwell.

And then an unpredictable thing happened.

And everything went to hell.

Rapid gunshots.

Masked men.

"Everybody down!"

"Everyone! Nobody moves!"

"On the floor!!"

And suddenly people were screaming.

And a baby was crying.

And Morgan exchanged an anxious glance with Hotch and Emily as they all made their way to laying face down on the floor.

…

The first minute or two wasn't so bad.

Hotch shot him a pointed look that said not to play hero.

And that was okay.

No one had to get shot.

They had other ways to make themselves useful.

They watched what they could see of the gunmen, and listened to them talk to each other.

Started piecing together a profile they could hand to the police.

And it might have been okay.

The whole thing could have played out peacefully.

Except that an alarm rang out.

A tinny beep.

And it took a moment, for Morgan to process what that meant.

It took a few seconds, to separate the sounds around him from the ones coming through his earpiece.

The smack of a slap, an involuntary groan.

_The tinny beeping_.

It hit him like a wall of ice water.

JJ had pushed her panic button.

And he couldn't fucking move.

…

Seconds or minutes passed as a blur of sounds.

Static and panic from Reid and Garcia.

Desperate whispers from Hotch and Prentiss.

Cries and threats and barbs and finally pleas, from JJ.

Morgan clawed at the marble floor.

"Standard protocol…" Hotch was whispering to Reid. "They've got full view of the elevator and the stairwell; even if you get in the building, you won't get to JJ."

"Hotch, I'm going," Morgan spit out.

"You can't help her with a bullet in you," Hotch shot back.

And Morgan heard him.

But it didn't register.

And he started to move --

-- and a gunshot rang out --

"You think we're fucking kidding?" a voice yelled.

And for a moment Morgan thought they'd shot at him and missed.

But there was a stranger on the floor with a pool of blood beneath his mangled head.

And there was no way out.

Even as JJ's cries turned to screams.

Even as he heard the plea in her voice turn into his name, and the sound engraved itself on his soul.

He found himself inching toward the door.

Instinct winning out over rationality.

Emily reached for him and grasped his wrist.

And there were tears in her eyes.

Blood on her face, too, and he realized she'd bitten through her own lip.

Her fingers didn't let up. She was either begging him to go or begging him to stay.

And then another gunshot rang out.

And this one surprised the gunmen.

"What the hell? Was that Eddie? Who the fuck's upstairs?"

And it wasn't until he heard that question voiced that it occurred to Morgan.

That the gunshot had been loud only to the three of them.

And he prayed that JJ had gotten control of her own gun.

Even as the reality of the past minutes weighed on him, and told him that it wasn't likely.

Even as his own words rang in his head.

_He uses whatever's available when he rapes and kills._

…

It was almost five minutes between the gunshot and the moment that Morgan yanked the door to the stairwell open.

Hotch had stood up.

Held his hands up in surrender as four automatic weapons spun at him.

Announced in a voice that didn't match the wild fury in his eyes:

"My name is Aaron Hotchner. I'm an FBI Agent. And I want to explain to you why my presence here today is the luckiest break you've ever had."

They were good words.

And no one had shot him.

He'd talked in barely coherent circles until he'd convinced them that it was in their best interest to let just one hostage go.

Morgan wasn't sure he'd ever remember the details.

It was already a blur as he flew up the stairs that he never should have left.

The door to the apartment was ajar as he sprinted to it.

And the first thing he saw when he got through the door was blood.

On the living room floor, all over the living room couch.

And just beyond that, all over JJ.

He was by her side in a split second.

And still too damn late.

"JJ, it's Morgan, Girl, where are you hurt? Where's all this blood coming from?"

She said nothing.

Her eyes screamed that she was in shock.

Her arms, wrapped tightly around herself, screamed at him to go away.

He looked her over, taking stock.

There was a wound on her swelling forehead that was dripping blood, but not nearly enough to explain the state of her clothes.

She looked pretty seriously banged up, but it didn't seem she'd been shot.

"Is this his blood?" he asked her, taking a second look at the pattern on the floor.

And realizing, now that his heart rate was slowing just a bit, that it was more a trail of blood than a pool of blood, and it went straight for the fire escape.

Hotch's voice buzzed in his ear:

"How is she?"

Morgan thought for a moment, responded:

"She hasn't been shot."

He left it at that.

It was all he was sure of.

And he tried to find words.

"You want to tell me how this all went down?" he asked quietly.

She said nothing for a long moment.

And then when she did speak, she didn't look at him.

"I think…"

"What's that?" he prompted.

"I think I got his DNA."

Her eyes flickered to him, looking for confirmation.

Looking for approval.

And he could have cried.

The unsub's DNA was all over the room.

All over her.

Maybe in more ways than one.

She'd gotten what she came for.

And paid fucking dearly.

"You did good," he promised her. "You did us proud."

She didn't hear him, or didn't believe him.

One or the other.

She didn't respond.

And then, because it was the easiest of all the questions he had to ask, and because he truly couldn't figure out the answer, he asked her:

"JJ, where's your gun?"

Tears filled her eyes.

And she choked on her words.

"I threw it."

"You threw it?"

"I threw it."

It made no sense.

But he took a look around anyway.

Her gaze followed his.

And her voice broke when she told him:

"I don't know where it is."

"That doesn't --"

"I don't want to be here."

Her tone was laced with a hint of panic, and he nodded quickly, and spoke to Hotch:

"Are we clear down there yet?"

It was Emily's voice that came back, whispering:

"It's less a robbery, more a hostage situation, now. Hotch is… negotiating. How's JJ?"

Morgan considered the question, then left it unanswered.

And he tried to meet JJ's eyes.

"We can go out in the hall, or to the stairwell. We can go that far. That work for you?"

She again neglected to answer.

But she struggled to her feet.

He reached out to help her when she swayed, tried to tell her:

"You've probably got a hell of a concussion."

But she kept her distance, refused his help, relying instead on the end of the couch to right herself.

They made their way to the door.

Moving slowly.

She pretended nothing hurt.

He pretended he hadn't seen the button missing from her jeans.

…

She tried to keep going when they got to the bottom of the stairs.

And physically grabbing on to her wasn't an option.

So he moved fast, got between her and the door.

"Hey, hang on a sec," he persuaded quietly. "JJ Girl… this is the end of the line until we hear from Hotch or Em."

She looked up at him, confused.

Clearly hadn't made sense of what was going on.

"Someone… four someones… tried to rob the bank," he told her.

And she was silent for a long, painful moment, processing that.

"That's why," she finally murmured.

And it was more a statement than a question.

But he confirmed it for her:

"That's why."

He wanted to add that he was sorry.

He wanted to tell her that he should have known better.

Should have stayed closer.

Should have been there.

But it was too much to lay on her in the raw quiet of the moment.

And so he just gestured to the stairs, tried to guide her to take a seat on the steps.

"Let's sit down."

She shook her head, took up a place leaning against the wall instead.

She tried to right her stretched and torn clothes, tried to cover her body with her inadequate arms, tried to pretend she wasn't trembling like a leaf.

He tried to do her the favor of not looking at her.

…

It was almost thirty minutes later that Emily came flying through the door and stopped short.

She looked JJ over, took a breath or two.

Then she spoke to Morgan without looking at him:

"Hotch needs you."

He heard her loud and clear.

('You go, I'll stay.')

And so he wasn't surprised when he found Hotch wrapping things up with the local authorities and not particularly in need of his help.

Their eyes met.

Hotch's darkened at the sight of his.

"We've got EMTs on scene," Hotch offered soberly.

Morgan nodded.

Hesitated.

Told him:

"Give her a minute with Em first."

There was a question on Hotch's face.

But Morgan just shook his head, walked away.

…

JJ's words in the apartment started to make a senseless kind of sense a few minutes later.

Morgan was bent over the main desk of the bank, letting it hold him up.

His earpiece hung by his neck.

But he could still hear Emily and JJ.

"He took my gun." JJ was almost choking on the words.

"You got it back, you shot him," Emily soothed. Carefully calm, mildly confused.

"He just… he took my gun…" JJ's voice cracked. "Em, he _used_ my gun…"

She broke down.

Couldn't say it.

And it took a second to hit him.

But then it did.

And damn if he didn't break down, too.

He could feel the tears reach his cheeks, feel the bile rise in his throat.

He let himself fall forward until his forehead pressed against the cool surface of the desk.

And he could still hear them.

JJ's voice begged:

"I don't want the others to know…"

…

There was only one thing he had to give her.

And he understood how much it meant.

Emily and Garcia were with her when he reached her room, and all three women looked up when he knocked on the open door.

The bruising on JJ's face had gotten deep and dark, but he only let it throw him for a moment.

"Second shift," he said quietly. "You two go get something hot from the cafeteria. I'll keep JJ company."

None of them looked particularly comfortable with that.

"I just need a moment," he told them, dropping the pretense.

"There's actually something I need to tell you," JJ spoke up, making a failed attempt to meet his eyes.

And at that, the two women stood.

Garcia's eyes were bloodshot, Emily's jaw was set in a line.

He reached out to them both as they went by.

And then he was alone with JJ, and he took a seat by her bed, and he didn't reach out to touch her.

And he started with the simple stuff:

"Hotch and Reid, they've got an army of detectives and uniforms. We know who he is, we know he's wounded. We're gonna get him."

He kept his voice even.

She nodded and forced a look of gratitude.

And he said what he needed to say for his own sake:

"You gotta know that part of this was my fault."

He paused, focused.

Couldn't let it choke him up again.

"I shouldn't have left the stairwell."

"Derek…"

He almost flinched.

It was his first name she'd used, when she'd screamed for his help.

And he wasn't sure he ever wanted to hear it from her lips again.

"You don't have to say anything," he told her.

And he wished she wouldn't.

He wanted to get to the point, give her what he had to give.

"_Whatever_ happened, in that apartment," he started, and she jumped on it.

"That's what I wanted to tell you," she said, meeting his eyes now.

And the self-assured note in her voice, it almost sounded real.

"What's that?" he prompted.

"I know how it must have sounded," she told him, using a practiced tone she'd never directed at him before. "I know how I must have looked. I just… I want you to know… It wasn't as bad as it seemed. We struggled. And yeah, he was… he was probably going to, but I got control of the gun." Her eyes fell to the bed sheets. "I just wanted you to know, that that's it. That's all."

She fell silent.

And he indulged her.

Because it was exactly what he'd come here for.

To let her have this lie.

So he nodded and told her:

"Thank God."

And she relaxed into a calmer misery, and they said little else.

And it wasn't enough.

But it was what he had to give.

And he handed her another important lie before he left.

"You're gonna be okay."

…


End file.
